Plain Shadows
by comptine
Summary: The end of summer nears and Paris trembles before the looming Reich, but Arthur does not. Neither does the double-edged cross, standing strong in a battle where guns bombs mean nothing and all one can trust are the webs of faith, betrayal and deceit.
1. Chapter 1

**Full summary (because 255 character limit killed it):** The end of summer nears and the city of Paris has fallen. The city trembles before the looming Reich, but Arthur does not. Neither does the double-edged cross, standing strong in a battle where guns and bombs mean nothing and all one can trust are the webs of faith, betrayal and deceit that hold the once-fair city together.

* * *

June 4th, 1940 - 10 Downing Street, London, England

_I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone. At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do._

Arthur Kirkland stood at attention outside the Prime Minister's office. He had been summoned here for one thing, and one thing only. France had fallen; the Reich was now on the shores of England's silver dragon, waiting to conquer, to destroy and to own. Arthur did not want to be here, he wanted to be fighting but there was no fight left, the soldiers had returned and now the nation waited with bated breath as the grumbled voice of their new leader crackled through their radios. A broadcast of hope.

_That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government-every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation. The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength._

A man in a suit appeared from inside Winston's room, dabbing at his dribbling nose with a tartan kerchief, swearing to himself in a heavy Scottish accent. "Alright…" he said, stuffing the kerchief back into his coat pocket, "I have all the information you'll need in a folder in the room over." Arthur wasn't paying attention, still staring at the door.

Walking over, the man grabbed Arthur's ear, pulling him. "Dinnae dingy your brother, c'mon!" Pulling the young blond into the other room, ignoring the light punches the Brit was throwing at him, the man in the suit set him down on a chair, grinning. "Oh my…" he said, pulling out his kerchief, staring intently at Arthur's face, "You've gone an' got bogies all over yer nose…"

_Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail._

Before Arthur could protest, the man was rubbing at his face with the tartan kerchief, clucking his tongue like a mother hen. Regaining some sense of pride, Arthur shoved his brother away. "Get out of it Ian!" he growled, rubbing his bright red nose violently.

Ian laughed, folding the kerchief carefully and replacing it in his jacket before sliding around the desk, sitting down in the large leather chair. "Little Artie's got bogies on his face." He teased.

The redness from Arthur's nose seemed to flood into his cheeks as he grumbled. His brother, still grinning, began searching through the piles of papers on the desk, pulling out a large yellowish folder with a small 'aha!' of triumph. The Scotsman hesitated, the folder sitting in his hand. "Arthur," the dark green eyes stared intently at the younger brother, "Are ya scared?"

Pride answering before sense, Arthur blurted out, "No. Why would I be scared, it's just a trip into occupied France."

"An then yer arse fell aff." Ian said calmly, eyebrow raised, "Yer just a lad… Mum, bless 'er heart, woulda seen us in the cundy before aff fightin' in the shadows."

"Mum isn't around anymore." Arthur said quietly, "I want to fight for my country. Let me do that…"

Ian, after a pause, passed over the folder. "Ya better not be dyin' fer it." He muttered as Arthur broke the red wax emblazoned with the throne, snapping the king in half.

Quietly reading the documents, avoiding the steady look Ian was sending him, Arthur got to his feet, slipping the papers back into the folder. "I'll show you to the door." Ian offered, following after Arthur into the entrance room.

_We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender,_

A storm raged outside as the older brother helped Arthur with his long trench coat, making sure the folder was safely hidden inside the dark material. The Englishman opened the door, hesitating on the landing. "Goodbye then Ian."

The Scotsman was rubbing at his eyes. "Goodbye ya little monsta… glad to be rid of you." Arthur stepped out into the rain, flipping his collar up. He only made it five steps before Ian called out to him.

"And Arthur?" he stopped, looking round at his brother, "Don't get yourself shot, alright? Miren'd make sure I'd never have any little ones ever. And give those Krauts a good dunt from me."

The Brit smiled, saluting his brother before disappearing into the shadows of the street.

_And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old._


	2. Chapter 2

_June 20th, 1940 - East Station, Paris, Occupied France_

The glass overhead was dark with the clouds of a storm as Arthur stepped off the train, glancing around. White marble columns that supported the roof were stained grey by the rain and Arthur sighed slightly, reaching into the pocket of his dark trench coat and pulling out leather gloves. Wasn't it supposed to rainy in London and sunny in Paris? Pushing through the thin crowds that littered the station, mostly comprised of soldiers, Arthur stepped outside, breathing in the air and blinking around. Shifting the shoulder bag a little and double-checking his camera was still around his neck, he headed for the curb, small suitcase in hand.

Glancing at his wristwatch, he noted that it was a few minutes off as above him a large clock marked three o'clock. He stared around, setting the suitcase at his feet looking out for the man who was supposed to be his guide. None of the solders were approaching him through and none fit the description of "an albino in a uniform." it was unnerving to have to stand in the middle of occupied territory as a guest, almost as if he was going on some bizarre vacation. His eyes glanced at the clock again as he willed time to pass, frequently checking inside his coat for his papers in case one of the soldiers should take a special interest in him.

Half an hour passed and the Brit was sitting on a trashcan, kicking it with the heels of his boots and listening to the low thrums echoing from the dark interior and lighting his second cigarette. "_We'll meet again_…" he hummed off-key, taking a drag, watching the smoke curl from his nose, "_Don't know where, don't know when_." Out of the corner of his eye he saw a French couple walking by and getting hassled by two Nazis. Lifting his camera to his eye, he took a picture, still watching the scene with idle interest.

Chuckling as the woman stormed away, the two solders looking dumbstruck while her partner grinned nervously, Arthur flicked the end of his cigarette away, watching it smoulder in a puddle as he searched for another one. Even by his standards of otherworldly time telling, half an hour was too long to wait and he was starting to get a little ticked off. He knew it didn't matter though. This was a once in a lifetime shot. A BBC reporter actually allowed into occupied France, not that he was a reporter, but it was fun to pretend. Relations between the English and Nazi regime were at a stalemate, the Dunkirk invasion having succeeded and the Battle of Britain poised to begin but Hitler was biding his time, securing his hold in France. It was only a matter of time before the invasion of the island would start and Arthur would be stuck here.

Now determined to find the hotel himself, Arthur got to his feet and picked up his briefcase; Paris couldn't be that hard to navigate. There was a loud screech to his right and out of instinct, he grabbed his camera -wishing for a moment it was a gun- bringing it up to his face and snapping a picture. A sleek, black car sped towards him, not slowing down and even with years of living on London streets Arthur couldn't move out of the way in time. He was sprayed by a sheet of mud as the tires slid through a puddle. Dripping with mud, water, oil and whatever other filth was on the French street, the Brit swore loudly, attracting the attention of many passersby, barely having protected his camera before he turned to the car.

Perhaps it was the mud in his eyes that prevented Arthur from seeing the large Swastika on the side of the door, but no matter. "Oy!" He yelled, shaking his hair out of his eyes, lifting the sleeve of his jacket to wipe his eyes, "Watch where you're sodding driving!"

The driver's door opened and a tall man stepped from it, turning to look at Arthur. He grinned, "Velcome to occupied France!" The man said jovially, sliding goggles off his head, winking at Arthur with a bright crimson eye.

Welcome to occupied France indeed.

* * *

Arthur soon found out that the man in the nice car was his German escort; Gilbert Beilschmidt, who would be making sure his trip would run smoothly (read: making sure he didn't get his big British nose into anything the Nazis didn't want him to see). Arthur didn't mind; it was better to be with the enemy drinking champagne then hiding in the shadows drinking warm beer in his humble opinion.

There were things he immediately liked about Gilbert and things he didn't. On one hand, the man was rude, brutish, over-confident and didn't really seem to care that Arthur could barely understand the mix of German and English _and_ had the hood down when it was raining. On the other, he drove fast and hard and Arthur had to respect that, especially in the cramped streets of France.

"You are vorking for BBC, _ja_?" Gilbert asked as they turned a sharp corner, laughing as a few Frenchmen jumped aside, cursing after him.

Arthur nodded, hand gripping the side of the car. "And taking some pictures for the Guardian." His eyes travelled over what he could see of the uniform that wasn't covered by a large black jacket. An Iron Cross at his neck and the huge Swastika on the car. The intelligence had been right, Gilbert was high-ranking.

"I have never heard of zees." He said, car sliding down a side street, barely fitting.

Looking up, Arthur saw a woman grin down from an open window, wearing only a bra and a very light shirt. He wondered for a moment if he was going to be able to keep pleasure out of business in the city of love. "Considering they're banned here, I'm not surprised."

Pulling onto a main road, the car stopped outside a large building from which large red banners hung, fluttering in a light breeze. Gilbert climbed out, black boots splashing in the street as a porter came out, holding an umbrella over the soldiers head. "_Herr _Kirkland!" he called, stopping once inside the safety of the alcoves leading into the hotel, "Come on, ve have not got all day, _ja_?"

Arthur grumbled, reaching into the car and grabbing his suitcase, looking across the road at the large hedges that stretched up into the sky, blotting out most of the view. "Picked the nicest hotel." He commented.

"_Ja_." Gilbert lead him inside to the sprawling lobby that was littered with men in dark uniforms and very subdued looking attendants, "Ve vanted somevhere to stay zat was comfortable. After all, ve vill be here a very long time."

"Very." Arthur agreed quietly, taking a few pictures, smiling as many of the men assembled turned away, raising hands to block their faces. Leading him over to the elevators, Gilbert hit the call button, clasping his hands behind his back. Arthur shifted on his feet, wishing he could see more of the man's medals and ascertain his rank, "So, what part of Germany are you from?"

The red eyes narrowed. "Prussia."

"Doesn't that… not exist anymore?" Arthur asked.

Elevator doors opening, Gilbert stepped into it, glaring back at Arthur. "I am of Prussian descent. Now get in the elevator or I vill leave you behind and you can take ze stairs."

"Well, can't have that." Arthur stepped in beside the soldier as the gloved hand reached out, hitting a button and the door shut. In the moment of silence that passed, Arthur wished his gun was in his shoulder holster and not his suitcase. "So… what part of Prussia then?"

Gilbert's shoulders pulled back slightly and he stood straighter. "The north... near Denmark."

Arthur snorted but said nothing, mind flicking to an old acquaintance. "And… your last name?"

The elevator came to a stop and Gilbert reached into his jacket, showing the hilt of a Luger for a moment before the jacket slipped back over his chest and held out a key to Arthur. Taking it and swallowing, the Brit stepped out of the lift, looking down at the room number engraved into the gold. "Beilschmidt."

He looked up, Gilbert was grinning at him. "_Reichsführer-SS_ Gilbert Beilschmidt." A gloved finger was placed to his lips and the red eye winked as the doors slid shut.

Arthur swallowed, staring at the closed doors, not noticing the key digging into his hand from the force of with which he was holding it. "_Reichsführer-SS_." Arthur repeated quietly, shaking his head and sighing. This could prove to be a problem. Deciding that mulling it all over in the middle of the hallway was probably not the best idea, Arthur started to his room, sliding the key into the lock and moving inside.

The walls and furniture were all a soft cream while pillows and other accents were made of a deep burgundy. Arthur threw his suitcase into a corner, tossing the eye on top of the bed before his hand found the knot of his tie pulling it loose. He walked over to the writing desk, pulling the curtains aside to stare out at the hedges and the garden beyond. He walked back over to his bag, picking up his camera and took a picture of the empty park, hoping one day he would see it filled with people.

He rummaged around the room some more, pleased to find a bottle of brandy. Popping the cap off and pouring a glass, Arthur leaned in the window frame, raising his drink to the city. "To fair Paris." he muttered, downing the drink.

* * *

**Author's Note**

- Hotel Meurice: the hotel where Nazis set up camp for the long haul. It's directly across from the Tuileries Gardens. Arthur is staying in one of the smaller suites.

-Reichsführer-SS: only five people ever achieved this rank (four at the time of this fic) but Gilbert can be the secret member… right?

-BBC ban: All British sources of information were banned from Occupied Paris, but especially BBC radio because de Gualle (leader of the Free French) would use it to broadcast to the Resistance)


	3. Chapter 3

_June 22nd, 1940 - Hotel Meurice, Paris, Occupied France_

Two days had passed which primarily consisted of Arthur attempting to glean information from German soldiers. His primary tactic was asking such blatant questions so as to disguise his actual identity. The best lying was with the truth. Most of these sessions tended to be cut short by Gilbert appearing out of the walls and leading him away.

His camera had gotten more use than expected during these outings. When the Prussian wasn't showing him around pre-arranged scenes with paid actors sitting outside cafes smiling at Arthur, or bicycling around the Champs Élysées and even picnicking on the edge of the Seine, the Brit managed to find the darker side of the city hidden in alleys and around corners. People scavenging for food in carts, Germans at every corner, guns in plain sight, and harsh yellow stars on the breasts of some Parisians' coats.

These pictures hung above his bathtub, the enlarger balanced on his toilet as he took them from the clips, squinting in semi-darkness cast by the light bulb covered in a red shirt. Smiling and holding the photos close to his chest, he opened the door to his bathroom, blinking in the grey of the stormy day. Flicking the photos onto the desk, he stared at them, spreading them out beneath his fingers, ignoring the rain at the window.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at his door and the Brit sighed slightly, putting down a photo of a blond man feeding ducks. "Coming!" he called, fixing his collar and making sure his sleeves were still rolled back before opening the door, "Oh… Gilbert."

The Prussian was out of his heavy uniform and now was only remarkable by his blinding hair and striking eyes. "Come on." He said, balancing on the heels of his boots, "We are going to the bar."

"The… bar?" Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Whatever for?"

Gilbert gave him an exasperated look. "Paris is the city of love, _ja_? We are not staying here a moment longer when there are French women out there looking for a good wurst." He made a vulgar motion with his hips and hands, making Arthur wince slightly.

"Lovely metaphor." Arthur said, smoothing the front of his shirt, "But I was going to stay in tonight, trying and get some writing done-" his words were cut short as Gilbert seized his arm, pulling him out of his room and towards the elevator.

"No buts!" he said excitedly, jabbing the 'down' button. "The bar! A cabaret! Women, beer and more women!"

Arthur opened his mouth to object but the soldier had already pulled him into the elevator, the doors sliding shut before Arthur could find his footing. "Sounds fun…" he muttered, "But shouldn't you be staying here and, you know, securing your Nazi empire?"

The Prussian grinned, stretching slightly. "That is exactly what I am doing," he said as the doors open and he practically skipped out of the elevator, "Spreading my superior genes around."

"The Aryan race..." Arthur muttered, following after Gilbert, "An excuse for one big shagfest."

* * *

The cabaret Gilbert's car stopped outside was ostentatious with its display of bright and flashy lights, posters of naked dancers dotted along the panels leading up the front doors and statues of Greek goddesses between the windows that marked the four floors. Arthur climbed out, glancing up at the large billboard-cutouts right above the doors of two naked women with large feathers on their heads and long silky red gloves that were holding up the neon sign announcing the name of the cabaret.

Diamant et Laisee

Arthur didn't have much time to observe the architecture and Glibert wrapped an arm around his shoulder, dragging him out of the rain and under the two women into the safety of the nightclub. Inside, low lights of chandeliers illuminated a large room with a stage and booths lining the edges of the room, a second floor was lined with doors, obviously private rooms for paying customers.

A large square bar protruded to Arthur's left, it's stools empty save for man in a driver's hat. The rest of the tables were filled with German soldiers and Nazis, most of them drunk out of their mind, half-naked women on their laps as they spoke loudly and mostly in German, adding the boisterous atmosphere of the room.

Taking up most of the floor was a thrust stage, a woman dancing on it with nothing up but a headdress and pair of thin shorts. Her blond hair was pulled up and off her face while she moved along the stage, high heels clicking as the soldiers around her whooped and cheered, eyes hungry.

Arthur eyes, for once, were drawn to the scene behind her. The backdrop was Paris and after staring for a few more seconds, the Brit realized that it was merely a pane of glass. The Eiffel Tower stood tall above the skyline and the moon rivalled it in brightness, though it was dulled by the storm clouds rolling about.

"Welcome." A woman sauntered up to them, corset tight and lifting, lips red and eyes sultry. Her skin was a dark caramel and the green eyes began to wander, "Can I get you gentlemen anything?" Her voice purred with French but Arthur sensed something else there, something spicy, exotic.

Gilbert was already off of Arthur, joining soldiers at a table, greeted with cheers and more rounds being ordered. The Prussian flopped down in a chair, grabbing a passing girl's arm, tugging her into his lap, grinning as she giggled.

Snorting slightly, the Brit shook his head. "No thank you." He said, walking over to the bar, sitting down. The man in the driver's hat made no acknowledgement, merely getting to his feet, leaving the cabaret without once looking up. Arthur sighed, glancing around. He didn't mind drinking alone but here he just felt like a very terrible voyeur.

Trying to keep his eyes off the women, he continued to absorb the cabaret itself. In the corner, a piano sat near the stage, it's player had his back turned to the bar, watching to woman on stage carefully, the delicate and tantalizing music in perfect harmony with her steps. All Arthur could glean from his brief stare was that the man was blond.

"Can I, um, get you something to, like, drink?" the Briton looked round. A very pretty blond was leaning on the bar, green eyes bright and enquiring, the slightest hint of blush and eyeliner on the soft face. Arthur frowned; gut telling him something was off, not just with the appearance but he was almost certain that accent wasn't French. "Excuse me, staring is rude." The bartender said, eyes batting and the blond hair was tossed over the thin shoulder. Fixing his eyes on the chest, Arthur's mouth opened slightly in shock.

"Blimey, you're a man!" he exclaimed.

Giggling slightly, the bartender nodded. "Sorry _króliczku_, you're out of luck. Unless," the blond pulled a face, frowning very hard in concentration so that his nose crinkled up, "you're, like, into that kind of stuff."

Arthur's cheeks turned pink despite himself. "Of course not. I'm here to see women. Tottys, not blokes." He cleared his throat, smirking, "You should learn the difference or you're going to find yourself up in one of those rooms."

"You should not be so crass." Arthur turned around. The pianist was standing behind him; long blond hair swept back, blue eyes dark and searching. His shirt was open just wide enough to show the hint of a necklace, "Especially consider where you are monsieur." The dancer was still on stage, though now she was playing to fuzzy music from hidden speakers.

The bartender sniggered. "Thanks Bonnefoy." he said, winking at him, "Wine?"

Raising a hand, the Frenchman shook his head. "No time. And no money either. Sadiq cannot pay me until tomorrow." He smiled sadly, "Sorry Feliks, you know I would love to stay and drink with you."

"I'll buy him the wine." Arthur said quickly, reaching for his wallet, "And a pint please, anything but German." He handed over a few Reichsmarks while the pianist hesitated before slipping onto the stool beside the Englishman.

As Feliks went about preparing the drinks, Arthur glanced over at the next to him. "So, Bonnefoy," he started, watching the blue eyes flick to him, "Is that your first name or?"

The man offered a small smile, but not his hand, which stayed firmly on the counter, tapping quietly. "Francis. Francis Bonnefoy."

"I'm Arthur Kirkland." The Brit didn't offer his hand either. They were silent until Feliks placed a large glass mug in front of the Brit filled to the brim with amber liquid and a tall wineglass in front of Francis. Immediately Francis picked up his drinking, swirling it around, observing the legs with casual ease. "So… have you always worked here Francis?"

Francis nodded. "Even before ze… occupation." He sipped the wine, testing it before swallowing half the glass in one go. His tongue ran over his lips in appreciation. "Zis is my home. We live in ze very top floors."

Wrapping his finger around his pint, Arthur frowned slightly, staring hard at Francis' chest, seeing the hint of a dark cross. But it wasn't a usual cross. "The top floors…" he repeated, glancing up, seeing a staircase on the second floor spiralling up, "Well, you have a beautiful view." He gestured towards the stage, "And I don't just mean the dancer."

To his surprise, Francis laughed quietly. "Paris is very lovely." He agreed, tending to his wine again. "And Katya is not ugly by any stretch."

This time Arthur saw the cross as it dipped out of the shirt for a moment. There were two horizontal lines, the top one smaller. "That cross on your neck-" Arthur started, but was cut off for a second time that night by Gilbert's arm sliding on his shoulder, pulling him flush into the Prussian.

"_Auf Kreta im Sturm und im Regen_!" he sang loudly, most of the soldiers singing with him, "_Da steht ein Fallschirmjäger auf der Wacht_!"

"Oh shit…" Arthur held Gilbert up, prying the tankard away from his flailing hand, placing it on the bar and hoisting the Prussian a little higher on his shoulders. "I better take him home."

Francis made no reply, the necklace was tucked under his shirt again, his eyes guarded and shady. Even Feliks and the dark-skinned girl were shooting his furtive looks. Even though there were mostly Germans there, and Gilbert was attracting most of the attention, Arthur could still feeling pairs of eyes searching him.

He grinned to himself, heaving Gilbert out of the cabaret and into his car, shaking his head as the Prussian's head lolled to the side and he was asleep within seconds. Arthur didn't care. He had hit the jackpot.

* * *

**Author's Note**

You know you've done too much research for a fanfiction when you attempt to cover a light bulb in a shirt to see if it'd make a sufficient dark room light. And I'm so going to hell for that Aryan race = shag comment.

**Translations (vague as they are):** _Auf Kreta im Sturm und im Regen_! _Da steht ein Fallschirmjäger auf der Wacht_! - On Crete, in the storm and in the rain! There a paratrooper is on on the wake!

_Diamant et Laisee - _Diamond and Leash (shut up, I like Death Cab for Cutie;;)

_króliczku _- bunny

-Pre-arranged photographs: the Nazis actually did this. They would pay Parisians to pose for pictures that showed a very light and cheery Paris instead of what was actually going on, very clever.

**Edit: AH, APPARENTLY THIS IS FALSE. The pictures from the exhibition I am talking about were a) taking in the day because of the film type. b) shot for a German magazine. c) were not actually all that happy. But it was still considered propaganda, so...**

-SOE: Arthur is a Special Operations Executive, which was a secret British military service during WWII that was set-up to team up with resistances across Europe. Just so everyone's clean on what kind of British spy he is~

-German drinking songs: fuck, you'd think they'd keep the Nazi gold a secret but nooooooooo the Germans keeps their drinking songs well hidden. It was so hard to find one, no less _translate_ it properly. The song dear Gilbo is singing is called "Auf Kreta". From my research, it's a paratrooper song from this age. Also, this song didn't exist probably till closer to the Battle of Crete (1941) but fuck it; Gilbert can sing songs before they're hip.


End file.
